Into the fire
by Onlythegoodieyoung
Summary: Maybe things weren't supposed to be this way. He could have chosen differently, he could have done something. He could have saved the day and been the hero for once. He could have done so many things that would have changed his current fate. He could have said the truth earlier, come out clean to the team. The thing is, he didn't do any of those. Set post S1.


**This one-shot is set after season one and prior to 2x01. I was in a nostalgic/depressed mood when I wrote this, after Ward died in the show. There is not much to explain: Ward is in Vault D and he is being interrogated by Coulson. There are mentions of Skyeward too, because I still can't get over them. Now, let's get on with the actual story.**

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Maybe things weren't supposed to be this way. He could have chosen differently, he could have done something. He could have saved the day and been the hero for once. He could have done so many things that would have changed his current fate. He could have said the truth earlier, come out clean to the team; he could have stopped before pulling the trigger. The thing is, he didn't do any of those. So he was now lying on the bed of the cell he had been confined to, staring at the ceiling, counting the minuscule cracks. Trying to forget the things he had done, because it was easier than admitting his sins. He did not want to think about it. However, the man sitting on the chair next to him was not making it easy. The man cleared his throat for the third time in the day. He didn't even bother to look his way this time. He just kept staring at the wall, pretending he didn't have any company.

"If you don't start talking, I walk. It's now or never."

He almost snorted at that. He had been hearing that threat for the past four months, and still the man returned every day, nine o'clock sharp. He knew he would have to give up this pretence at some point, but he didn't want to say anything. Not yet, anyway.

"Jim Collins. Does it ring a bell?"

It did. Mid-forties, receding hair, short but broad-shouldered; a wife and two kids, a boy and a girl. He didn't know what moved him to answer, but for the first time in a month, he finally said something:

"Maybe. Why?"

"What do you know about him?"

"Not much. I don't think you are his type, though."

"Is this a game to you?" the man stood up, seething. He felt the sudden urge to laugh, even though he was less than amused. He really didn't get it. He expected answers when he had locked him up in a cage, like a wild animal. He most probably deserved it. However, it didn't mean he was okay with those agreements. He'd rather have a trial and be in jail, a real one. At least there he would have some company. Or maybe not. That thought almost made him shiver.

"What do you want to know?" he sighed, suddenly feeling cold and worn out.

"Everything you know. Allegiances, projects, experiments he was taking part in…"

"That was above my clearance. Why don't you ask him directly?" he turned to look at him, making sure he believed him when he said he did not have the information requested. Who was his now ex-boss was staring blankly at him, and the realization came dawning to him.

"He's dead." the man said nothing, confirming his suspicions. "Well, that is too bad, as he was a very high-ranked leader in the organization."

"You were too. Just tell us what you know."

"In exchange for what?"

"Are you bloody _serious_ right now? Do you thi-do you even _believe_ you have the right to ask for anything in exchange? You should be thankful you are still alive you son of a-"

"Now you are talking! That's it, right? It won't matter what I do, or how much help I offer, I'm never getting out of here."

"Do you think I would free a psychopath like you in exchange for some intel? Ever since you have been placed here you have been blaming everyone but yourself for _your_ own actions."

"I know what I've done, and I know what I am. The question is, do you?" the man did not answer at first, not rising to the bait.

"You say I'm a psychopath, but how many people have you murdered?"

"Don't pretend you and I are the same, because we are not."

"What's the difference, _sir_? I have killed people before; under your orders may I add. But suddenly I kill one of yours and now I am the bad guy. How did that happen?"

"And you don't even feel remorse…"

"That's the job. I had to make a call and I did."

"Well you made the wrong call, and now you are paying for it" he sat up and rose from his bed, making his way to where the other man was standing.

"Wake up for God's sake. I might be the bad guy in your story. But you know what? You are also the bad guy in other people stories. Jim Collins, does it ring a bell? He had a wife, now a widow, and two kids have been left without a father. Stop playing God and stop judging people when you have blood on your hands too." He feared that the man might punch him square in the face. Instead, he just pursed his lips and walked away.

The man did not appear for three weeks straight. He spent that time thinking, pondering. A part of him wanted to make things right, make a difference; help the people he had slowly started caring about before betraying them. That part of him sought the redemption he knew he was never going to be granted with. Another part of him just wanted to pretend that his whole life had been a bad dream, a dreadful nightmare, and when he finally woke up he would be in Hawaii or some other paradisiacal island. The other part of him wanted to rebel against everything, refused to take any more orders. Unfortunately, that last part of him had taken over ever since he had been captured, and he didn't know whether to feel glad or not.

When the man finally decided to pay him a visit he had just woken up. He didn't come alone this time. Four guards flanked him, each with one submachine gun. The man's face was unreadable, and he found that that bothered him as hell.

"What is this? Did I scare you the last time?" his face remained impassible.

"I gave you a chance, you didn't take it. You are being transferred to jail, a real one. You'll have a fair trial first, if you can believe that. I guess this is what you wanted."

"So this is-"

"You'll have many years ahead of you in which you will question your life choices. I hope you don't have any regrets, or they might consume you. Good luck" and with that, he motioned the guards to cuff his hands and left. He didn't turn back, he never slacked the speed of his pace. He felt numb after his departure, not even noticing the hands working on his wrists. Fear swept through him as he realized that this was his turning point, there was no going back. No more opportunities. No more anything.

He was carried away just as he had been carried in: quietly, without any commotion, going through the back door. There were no send offs from the people who used to call him _friend_. Not that he had expected any. Definitely not from the little brunette who had broken his heart after he had broken hers. No tears, no goodbyes. It was as if he had never been part of any of these people's lives, and maybe it was better this way. It kept the dream alive, the one in which he was just a normal guy who lived an ordinary life, far away from this whole messed up nightmare. He used to like that dream, but after looking back longingly at his previous workplace, he wasn't so sure anymore. He almost wished he had said something, anything, in all those times he had been asked to speak. The doors of the van were closed and just like that, he was sent off to a jail in California. He had always wanted to go to LA, to become an actor. He chuckled, thinking about his life and the choices that had led him up to this place. It had definitely been the role of a lifetime.

That photograph had been mocking him ever since they all found out that he had betrayed them. They were all smiling, giving the impression of a happy family. He wondered how much of it had been real.

"What are you doing?" he was startled, which caused him to drop the picture. She retrieved it and took a look at the photograph. A ghost of a smile appeared on her face, and she left the picture on his table.

"You have to stop blaming yourself, there was noth-"

"He's dead" she blinked, not fully understanding the meaning of those words.

"I'll spare you the details, but it happened not so long ago" he stared at her intently, and she didn't quite understand what he meant by that. Was he offering a lift to wherever he had been buried?

"Do you really think it will make you feel better to go and visit him one last time?"

"I couldn't help him; I should have tried harder…"

"He didn't want to be saved. There was nothing you could have done."

He looked up at her. She had changed so much. She had been heartbroken; her cheerful manners had been subdued by the sorrow. Gloominess had taken over her life. But she had eventually moved on. He was sure she had not forgotten, probably never will, but she had made her life right again. That's all that counted. So, he wondered why he still was not able to move on. It's ironic, really. His last words for him went along the lines that his regrets might kill him, and now his own regrets were the ones killing _him_. It had been a never ending game with Grant Ward; he had still been haunting him, miles away from him. He was pretty sure his memory will still haunt him for the rest of his life. He took the picture off its picture frame and ripped the side he appeared in. He put the picture on its frame again and threw the piece in which his face appeared to the bin. He could do that, pretend he had never existed. He didn't even exist anymore.

"Let's go, I'm hungry."

She frowned and took a last glance at the ripped off picture. He seemed happy, relaxed. It was hard to go back to those days, it seemed like an eternity had passed. Maybe it had, thirteen years had definitely taken its toll. They walked together to the living room, where the team was comfortably settled. They looked at each other one last time before going in opposite directions. Maybe things weren't supposed to be this way. They could have done something. They could have actually offered help, real help. He could have actually tried and redeem himself. The thing is, no one did any of those, and that's that.


End file.
